Olympus shone in its alabaster glory, and all celebrated the birth of their lord's new daughter, his firstborn—Athena!
But in the heart of the divine palace, something different had occurred. Something that should never have happened.
Hera, queen of the gods, felt her rage burn within her like a furnace about to explode. Her wounded pride gnawed at her—a wound invisible, yet more painful than any spear's strike. Her husband, Zeus, in all his arrogance, had done the impossible: he had given birth to Athena without a woman, without her.
The humiliation suffocated her.
"The great Zeus, the almighty king of the gods, dared to create a daughter on his own… as if I, Hera, were not worthy of bringing forth something as grand as his Athena?"
Her gaze swept the empty halls of the palace as her fingers tightened over the arms of her throne. All of Olympus was celebrating the birth of the new goddess, but Hera had remained isolated, consumed by her bitterness.
"Very well, if he could do it, then so can I. I don't need Zeus. I don't need anyone."
With a burning desire and a silent command, Hera did what no other goddess besides the primordial mothers had ever dared attempt: conceive a child alone. Not out of lust, not out of love, but out of sheer determination and wounded pride. The act was a challenge to her very identity as the goddess of motherhood.
And the result… was a child like no other god had ever seen.
It took her several days to gather the necessary knowledge for the ritual—an ancient rite, the same used by the primordial Gaia to birth her children and consorts, and by Nyx and her dozens of offspring.
And thanks to Hecate's help, she had finally succeeded.
And now, the result of all that effort was visible: the birth of her perfect child.
The pain of childbirth was intense, more than any suffering Hera had ever known. Olympus trembled faintly when the tiny being emerged, but there were no grand celebrations, no thunder, no hymns sung by minor gods. Only an uncomfortable silence, as if reality itself had hesitated before the newborn.
And when her eyes fell upon the child, Hera felt a chill run down her spine.
The baby was fragile—far too thin for a god, small, as if the universe itself hesitated to grant him strength. His skin was dark, shimmering in a mocha tone. Golden markings like veins ran across his body, crossing his face in a tattoo-like pattern on his forehead, as if divine fire flowed within him.
And his eyes…
Silver and empty, glittering like stars in an endless night—but she understood their meaning.
Blindness.
Hera froze.
"What… is this?"
She felt her chest tighten. The child breathed with difficulty, his tiny arms trembling weakly, and he could not even see—so unlike Athena, who had emerged glorious from Zeus' head, armed and strong. This baby seemed… fragile. Breakable.
A mistake.
Hera's expression hardened.
"This cannot be my son." Her voice came out cold, almost mechanical.
The idea that this child could be proof of her vengeance against Zeus now seemed suddenly ridiculous. Athena had been born a perfect warrior—and she… she had birthed this?
A deformed being. Small. Weak.
Disgust filled her chest.
"I cannot allow this mistake to exist. Olympus will never accept a god like this. I will never accept him."
The baby cried.
Hera pressed her lips together, taking the child in her arms. The plan was already decided. She would climb to the peak of Mount Olympus and cast him away, never to be seen again.
And so she did.
Cold winds cut against her immortal skin as she climbed the marble steps leading to the highest point of Mount Olympus. Every step echoed within her, a reminder of the decision she had made.
The baby continued to cry in her arms, but his voice was faint, barely audible. Hera refused to look at him.
"It doesn't matter. A mistake must be corrected."
The summit of Olympus finally revealed itself. There, the winds howled and clouds swirled in a stormy vortex. A single motion, a single moment, and the child's fate would be sealed.
She lifted the little god.
And then she looked into his eyes.
The dull silver in his irises shimmered like moonlight reflected on the ocean. Innocent eyes. Eyes that did not comprehend or see the cruel fate awaiting them.
Eyes that trusted her.
Hera's heart clenched.
"What am I doing…?"
Her lips trembled, and before she realized, silent tears streamed down her face.
"What was I about to do…?" Her voice faltered, a whisper lost in the wind.
The tiny baby moved his arms with effort, seeking warmth, seeking comfort.
And Hera gave in.
With a muffled sob, she cradled the small Hephaestus to her chest. He curled into her warmth, stopping his cries.
In that moment, for the first time in her immortal existence, Hera felt pity.
Not for herself. Not for wounded pride.
But for something more fragile than she was.
Something she should love.
And there, weeping with her little god in her arms, Hera vowed she would care for him—even if he was ugly and vulnerable, she would still treat him as her perfect little son.
◇◇◇◇
Elsewhere
Far away, in a realm beyond the gods' perception, three figures watched closely.
The Moirai, the weavers of fate, were gathered around their eternal loom, the threads of time glowing beneath their fingers.
Something strange had happened.
Hephaestus' thread, which once descended in a straight line toward darkness, now branched into multiple directions—new paths forming, unknown futures being woven before their eyes.
Atropos, the cutter of threads, narrowed her golden eyes.
"This should not be happening."
Lachesis, the measurer of destinies, smiled slightly.
"But it is."
Clotho, the spinner of the threads, let out a soft, intrigued laugh.
"This god has created his own path. How interesting…"
And so, the fate of the god who was meant to be forgotten was forever changed.
Hephaestus—the rejected, the fragile, the one who should have been cast into the void—now rested in the arms of the queen of the gods.
And Olympus would never be the same again.